


only, the knife

by pomme (manta)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Introspection, M/M, brief references about keith's past and in canon occurrences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:50:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manta/pseuds/pomme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief contemplation on serrated edges, worn smooth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only, the knife

**Author's Note:**

> my first (tiny) voltron fic, written for the ship that is keith/hunk. which i affectionately refer to as "thunk", cuz that rolls off the tongue more easily for me.

It is on the silent walk back to his cabin, watching dust sweep up like locusts against the smudged sunset, that Keith realizes he has reached a point.

Living here, with its inconveniences, makes more sense than staying under a roof that doesn't leak. Doing what he likes, _whatever_ he likes, comes more naturally than obeying the stern authority of a commander or, perhaps, a parent.

He'd always possessed a degree of rebelliousness, if only because he didn't see the point of doing something for propriety's sake. After all, the knife in his pocket is jagged because it had no choice but to become so.

Keith whittles the blade against a rock. And then, he nails the knife in the cabin's front door.

 

* * *

 

Top of his class. One of the best damn fliers the Garrison's ever seen. Poised for greatness, if greatness meant intergalactic explorations and honors and medals and a name inked in a tome.

But Keith doesn't give a damn about those, never has. He's only thankful his instinct proves correct in the here and now, and steers true, and saves him. Not just from the mishaps that could have been throughout his life, but when he's escaping the Garrison yet again, accompanied by a pilot believed dead and three terrified cadets.

Keith isn't pleased with the extra cargo. But his priority now is to get them all out alive, and so he checks all around, blind spots included,  _never_ simply straight ahead. He hones his focus where it should be, and calls.

"Big man, lean left!"

 

* * *

 

The Castle of Lions is robust, an engineering marvel of Coran's grandfather's that has managed to withstand assaults through the centuries. But for all of its shields and defensive mechanisms, it can't keep out another sort of disease altogether: homesickness.

Keith longs for his cabin, small but his, in the moments when he wants peace and quiet. But he is, for the most part, fine.  _Good_ , even. He has a blade (two now, in fact), a purpose more important than what he left behind, and a family he didn't expect to find, but now can't imagine life without.

His so-called "conspiracy theories" led to Shiro, who has quite readily accepted his much improved predicament. But while Pidge doesn't always look at the photo she guards so fiercely, it lies in her lap like a promise. Allura and Coran reminisce about a blooming Altea that lives on in their minds, when a charred wasteland is all that remains. And Lance often speaks to the room at large of a basketball's clean _swish_ as it sinks in the hoop, of musty breezes hinting at rain, and warm conversations held on wooden benches until fireflies blink in the twilight.

Then there's Hunk, who spends his time divided between everyone else and the kitchen.

When Keith wanders in, he pauses to marvel at the unwieldy knife in Hunk's hands, with its large size and oddly shaped handle. But Hunk raises it easily into the air, frowning as he does when examining a wayward screw. "Handle... probably used by a cook with at least seven, no, eight fingers. Strong too, this thing weighs a _ton_. Metal... something stain-free, probably a diamond-like consistency; I could smash it and the counter'd break first. Heavy, wide, curved blade... I'd say a butcher knife. Yeah, let's go with that." He lowers the knife, and catches Keith's eye. "Oh, hey."

"Hey." Keith watches Hunk reassemble the collection of unfamiliar food on the wide counter - strangely colored roots and meats and even something with pure white pustules. "How do you know what goes with what?"

"I don't. Coran knows what's edible and what's healthy, but he's used to how this stuff tastes." Hunk uses a smaller knife to pop one of the pustules, sniffs the liquid inside, and makes a face. "Just takes a bit of experimenting, and things'll fit together."

The blue fruit next to the pustular one makes Hunk's eyes water, but his eyes shine from more than merely the rancid smell. He's in his element here, among a different assortment of gears and axles, and Keith gets the sense that while Hunk needs time, he's fine anywhere once the framework is in place.

Hunk grunts as he heaves the butcher knife back into its rack. He picks a considerably smaller blade and begins to slice a yellow root, his blade a blur. He manages to talk without slowing down. "You seem interested."

And that's when Keith catches himself, wide eyed with fascination, hands clutching the edge of the table and posture slanted for a better look. He eases himself back, and Hunk throws him a curious look. "I haven't seen anyone cook in person," Keith admits, feeling safe to say so because Hunk won't judge him for it.

"Hm." Hunk pauses to place the blade down, and sweeps the board's chopped contents into a pot. "I'm still learning. But I'll teach you the basics if you want?"

"It's fine." Keith settles on the stool at the counter, his hands loosely laced together. "I'll watch from here."

 

* * *

 

 _A paladin of Voltron_.

When Keith agreed to take on the role of one of the defenders of the universe, he believed he understood its significance. It seemed simple in theory, too: stamp out any signs of the Galra Empire's influence on other planets, and save the inhabitants.

But Keith discounted the personal aspect of being a paladin. Passing thoughts, such as what would his life have been on Earth, galaxies away? Why _did_ his hand print register on a Galra battleship?

And there are the friends he's made like the Arusians, small in stature and cuddly, but fiercely loyal. Hunk's the easiest to talk to, in that regard.

"Shay told me a bit more about how the Balmera communicates with the Balmerans." Hunk's spread comfortably on the common room floor, hands behind his head. Most of those onboard have already gone to sleep. "She can't really explain it, because it just _happens_ like a voice in her head. But isn't that neat? They're all part of a system." And with that, Hunk's combined heart and mind in a way unique to him.

Keith, curled nearby, fingers his knife. Blade in his hand, he's defenseless.

He didn't see this one coming.

When did his vigilance fade, to be replaced with the feeling that wells up within him? He'd have forgotten how easily the sensation is comparable to the rising sun warming his face, if Lance hadn't mentioned it once in passing.

"You all right?"

Keith starts, and turns back over to where he can meet Hunk's eyes. They glint. "Yeah. Why?"

Hunk appears embarrassed, one of his hands wandering to his neck. "Oh, I dunno. You just seemed like you were figuring something out."

Keith exhales, the last of his questions leaving with his breath. He mimics Hunk, raising his own hands behind his head to look up at the dimmed lights, his and Hunk's elbows almost touching.

"I'm good," he says.

 


End file.
